


leverage

by faithful_lie



Series: Yoongi, I'm sorry... [3]
Category: GOT7, K-pop, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gang World, Blood, Blood and Gore, Chelsea Smile, Gang Violence, Gore, Implied yoonjin, Injury, Other, Pain, SO, Swearing, Torture, Violence, sorry - Freeform, this is a vent fic, yeah - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-10-15 00:00:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10546572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithful_lie/pseuds/faithful_lie
Summary: "Whatever you've got planned," he drawled, fingers tapping idly, "just get it over with."





	1. one

 

He woke up with a gasp, a shuddering painful intake of breath as a ripple of cold flowed through him, shocking him back into consciousness. He gasped some more, the ice cold water that had just been dumped over him running down his face, dripping from his hair, soaking through his jeans.

In his desperate breaths he sucked in a little bit of the water and found himself convulsing with coughs that wracked his form. He jerked against his binds as he attempted to clear his airways, spitting onto the floor between his legs before he finally raised his head to be greeted by a familiar face.

Jackson.

Well shit. Jackson was one of very few people that actually scared Yoongi - not that he had any intentions of letting it show - but as he gazed around, assessing his situation, he felt a heavy weight settling in his stomach. The room was square with concrete walls and a concrete floor, fluorescent lights overhead – truly drab. They weren’t alone either. Two more arseholes leaned up against the walls on either side of the only door out of there. Not that it particularly mattered when Yoongi was tied to a chair, his arms and legs each carefully secured to an arm or leg, the chair itself seemingly bolted to the floor.

He shivered involuntarily even as he tilted his head back, summoning a soft smirk onto his lips.

“Jackson,” he rasped, low voice already rough from the coughing, “to what do I owe this...” he paused, his lip curling in distaste as he looked the man over, “pleasure...?” Jackson was by all accounts unfazed by Yoongi’s apparent confidence, grinning in response to his question. Leisurely, his scarred hands moved to fix his suit jacket and then run through his (perfect) blonde hair.

“I think you misunderstand the situation you are in, my dear friend,” Jackson murmured, stepping a little closer, his pristine shoes narrowly avoiding Yoongi’s gob of spit as he moved between his legs, suddenly uncomfortably close. Yoongi forced himself not to shrink back, craning his head back to meet Jackson’s eyes, making sure to keep the same lackadaisical grin on his face, like for like with the man looming over him. “You’re very much at my mercy. Your wonderful Seokjin can’t save you now.”

The chill Yoongi felt at those words was very real and he felt his smile falter. To cover up the crack in his façade he spat again, this time into Jackson’s face. It earned him a straight slap, hard across the face, turning his head slightly aside. When he turned back, Jackson was gazing down at him with a sliver of disgust in his eyes. Unfortunately, however, it was also accompanied by a disconcerting gleam of interest. Before Yoongi could even begin to discern its cause Jackson had slapped him again, a backhand this time, striking the other cheek and pulling a low groan from him as he tugged at his binds, itching to return what Jackson had given him tenfold, send the motherfucker down like he had in their last encounter. Of course, that was why he was so securely restrained, the ropes cutting off his circulation just a little. If Jackson scared Yoongi, then Yoongi definitively scared Jackson. It was a weird relationship.

Yoongi shook his head a little to clear it, ignoring the ringing in his ears. He glanced up at Jackson through his wet fringe.

“Whatever you’ve got planned, just fucking get it over with,” he drawled, tapping his fingers idly, “you bore me.” He saw the muscle twitch in Jackson’s jaw, saw the way his hands clenched; he was losing his composure. Perhaps he would even break his nerve and dump Yoongi on the street in fear of Seokjin’s wrath. Unlikely, but a man could dream. The insult did not work in his favour, however; after a moment, Jackson relaxed, stepping back and walking in a slow circle around Yoongi, appraising him from every angle. Yoongi shifted under his gaze, the hairs on the back of his neck rising as he shuddered with cold and nerves.

What would Jackson do? Anyone else and Yoongi could probably predict, he would get beaten unconscious as then dumped back on Seokjin’s turf as a warning. Jackson, however, was more unpredictable. Somewhat of a loose canon. Yoongi had a horrible feeling as he caught the glint in the man’s eyes that he had in mind to do something more permanent than just a simple beating, a suspicion that was confirmed when the man moved back in front of him, shucking off his suit jacket and throwing it across the room.

Jackson wore a soft pink shirt, with the sleeves turned back above his elbows and, plain to see on his left forearm, was a rather beautiful leather holster, containing a small knife. A knife anywhere in the vicinity of Jackson was never a good sign and Yoongi finally lost his cool – completely unable to pretend that he wasn’t shit scared anymore. He only scared Jackson because of his connections, because free, he could easily get the better of the other man, but here and now, isolated and tied down, he was defenceless.

And he knew what kinds of things Jackson liked to do with knives.

Yoongi thrashed about in the chair, feeling the rope burning his skin, cussing and throwing empty threats. Although he was certain he saw Jackson flinch at the mention of Seokjin, it otherwise had no effect apart from tiring him out. He felt like a child that had just had a massive tantrum when he finally slumped back into the chair, Jackson still staring at him impassively.

“I’ve decided,” Jackson said and Yoongi felt like he’d forgotten how to breathe, staring with wide eyes as the man pulled on a pair of black leather gloves, “hold his head.” He ordered and one of the men lounging by the door stalked across the room. Yoongi’s eyes were on the blade alone as the man slowly withdrew it from its sheath, the edge wickedly sharp. He didn’t even have time to tense before a solid kick to the stomach forced the breath out of him in one painful blow, tears pooling in his eyes instantly even as gloved hands grasped his head from behind, pulling it back against the head of the chair, forcing his neck to bend weirdly even as he struggled for breath. He could barely think as he felt a heavy weight – Jackson – settling in his lap. He finally managed to draw in a breath as the tears fell and he yelped as he felt the blade cutting into the skin of one arm, then the other.

A moment later, the cool blade was resting threateningly against the vulnerable skin of his exposed neck. He would have frozen if he had his breathing under control, but as it was he was still gasping loudly and he felt the slight sting of the blade breaking the skin just the slightest bit. He wanted to tell Jackson to just finish the job but he couldn’t.

“I know what you want,” Jackson whispered, his breath hot and unpleasant against Yoongi’s neck, “and that’s far too easy, but don’t worry, what I have planned won’t take much longer.” He shifted in Yoongi’s lap then, pulling the blade away and leaning up over Yoongi, gazing down at him and gifting him with a bright smile. “I think you and Seokjin are going to love it.” The man holding Yoongi’s head adjusted his grip but Yoongi’s mind was racing too much to take advantage. He could only watch as Jackson took a moment to admire him. “You have such a pretty face, Yoongi.” Jackson murmured, his tone suddenly soft and that scared Yoongi a lot more than the scorn that had previously filled it – did this mean Jackson was planning to do something to his face? Leather encased fingers stroked his cheeks, his lips. Yoongi was tempted to bite but he couldn’t see how it would help him. “Love your mouth...” Jackson continued, suddenly lowering the knife and Yoongi let out an involuntary noise of distress. No.

No way.

Jackson wouldn’t .

Would he?

He cut out from the corner of Yoongi’s mouth, extending it just a little. Not a big cut, but enough. He swiftly made a matching cut at the other corner and Yoongi’s eyes rolled back in his head. He was never good with certain types of pain. He could taste blood and feel it trickling down his chin in two thick lines.

“Ah,” Jackson sighed above him, “blood always looks so good against your skin.” And then his head was free and Jackson was drawing away but he knew what was coming next. He gritted his teeth and this time when the kick impacted his stomach he was ready, teeth gritted to keep in the scream that accompanied his ribs breaking. The second kick however, just adjacent to the first, he was not prepared for and a cry of pain tore out of him, twisting and turning ugly as the action of screaming tore at his cheeks and further opened his wounds. He made a strange mixture between a sob and a choking sound as his head lolled forwards, waves of pain radiating through his skull as blood dripped worrying fast onto his thighs.

A Chelsea smile...

Jackson had given him a fucking Chelsea smile.

He could feel his consciousness fading, barely aware of the hands untying the binds, but he caught sight of Jackson one last time, watching him, thoroughly satisfied, and the last thought on his mind before he fell into the black was to ruin that fucker’s face, to fucking carve his name into the man’s flesh, tag him forever and destroy his status; his mind filled with revenge.

 


	2. two

 

Seokjin plucked the phone from the hook delicately as soon as it rung, bored out of his mind and in need of a distraction.

"What?"

"It's, it's n-not good news," the man on the other end, Taehyung, stuttered. He sounded winded and Seokjin frowned; it took a lot to shake Taehyung. That was why he kept him around. That and his unfailing loyalty. "It's Yoongi." Taehyung rasped.

Seokjin stopped breathing.

 

He had never felt so cold. He was certain that the part of him that dealt with emotions, that utterly human part that he clung to in order to convince himself that there was some purpose to his existence - something more than mindless violence - had just shut down, retreating to the farthest corner of his mind. He was utterly numb.

He was on autopilot as he climbed out of the car, striding in measured, unhurried steps into the gaping maw of the dingy alley before him. His boots splashed in the puddles that had gathered on the uneven ground. The dark that he usually embraced seemed to be closing in on him, threatening to swallow him up and never spit him back out.

The scent of blood clear in the air as he made his way deeper into the alleyway had his nostrils flaring, set his teeth on edge, but his countenance was otherwise unchanged. Taehyung, in contrast was wide eyed and sickly pale, a sheen of sweat sticking his ruffled hair to his face as he shadowed Seokjin - his right hand. Nervous.

The alleyway was gloomy and dank, but this was where the tip off Taehyung had received had directed them to and it was all they had to go on, their best chance of finding Yoongi.

Seokjin's hand hovered over his holstered pistol as he flicked on the torch in his other hand, sweeping it in a broad arc. He was not prepared for the sight before him.

Usually blood and gore had little to no effect on him - such a common part of his life; it was rare that he went an entire day without spilling a little. But to see his lover carelessly dumped on the ground, the lower half of his face stained brown, the blood crusty and drying, his eyes closed. Yoongi was always pale but now he looked like death - waif like and broken on the ground.

There was copious blood on his skin, his clothes and initially, Seokjin was unsure where it was all coming from, the poor light hindering his sight, his stomach knotting as sudden fear swelled within him. He had to force himself to be still enough to keep hold of the torch and not just drop it. Yoongi was such a mess.

That emotional part of himself he'd thought had been safely filed away was suddenly back, screaming indecipherably and it was all he could hear as he dropped to his knees, uncaring of the water soaking through his slacks as he reached for Yoongi. But as his hands neared his lover, the light of the torch illuminating the truly grisly appearance of Yoongi's face - torn asunder, reddened teeth visible where they most certainly shouldn't be, skin slack and peeled back. Seeing the full extent of the damage, he recoiled in horror, his arms wrapping around his stomach as if holding himself together, stopping him from shaking apart. Yoongi was so strong. He didn't understand. How could this happen?

"Seokjin," Taehyung murmured from someplace behind him, the man wisely keeping his distance. Seokjin didn't reply, simply holding the torch out to Taehyung before turning back to Yoongi, one of his hands sliding along that sticky slender neck to feel the regular fluttering of a faint but recognisable pulse. One good thing. If Yoongi had been dead he would have razed the city to the ground, preferably with himself in it.

He threaded his arms around Yoongi as carefully as he could, carrying him princess style and making sure his head rested on Seokjin's shoulder rather than lolling back. It was probably a good thing that Yoongi was unconscious, he didn't want to think about the pain he would be in if he were to wake.

Seokjin stalked past Taehyung, back to the car, a tiny spark igniting deep inside. Seokjin's anger was legendary â€“ it didn't burn bright and fast like a chaotic flame, a forest fire, no, instead it was the ash, smouldering, insignificant, building and building until at last his true wrath was unleashed.

The culprit would pay. He swore it on his own life right there as he sat in the back of his car, Yoongi slumped against him, Seokjin's silken shirt slowly blossoming into crimson beneath his unconscious form.

Whoever had done this would wish they had never been born. He would make sure of it.


End file.
